


after the world ends

by moorglade



Series: between two mirrors is a life lived in parallel [1]
Category: Cycling RPF, Sports RPF
Genre: 5+1 Things, A deal with consequences, All Just a Dream, Alternate Universe - Alien Invasion, Alternate Universe - Endless Winter, Alternate Universe - No COVID, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Waterworld, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apocalypse, Be Careful What You Wish For, Cuddling & Snuggling, Don't Have to Know Canon, Gen, Hallucinations, Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Journey to the Underworld, Mind Control, Nothing more explicit than that, Physical Disability, Post-Apocalypse, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Tagged as both gen and ship because you can read it either way, Temporarily Mute, The Road Goes Ever On And On, The aliens are a metaphor, death of the author baby, gratuitous use of weather as a plot device, hand holding, no one actually dies though, or are they, take your pick of whether they're close bffs or in a qpr or banging continually offscreen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:34:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24946942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moorglade/pseuds/moorglade
Summary: Sometimes the apocalypse happens and you have to keep on living anyway.  Or five times Romain Bardet had a front-row seat for the end of the world, and one time reports of the death of civilisation were greatly exaggerated.Disclaimer: Absolutely nothing in this story actually happened, and should not be taken as a reflection on these two very real people.  Especially the bit about the aliens.
Relationships: Romain Bardet & Warren Barguil, Romain Bardet/Warren Barguil
Series: between two mirrors is a life lived in parallel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1806787
Kudos: 3





	1. four hundred and twenty eight days

There was a saying Romain had heard once, long ago: that hell was an office party where there was always half an hour remaining before one could leave. He'd never worked in an office for long enough to be asked to a party, and Romain supposed that he never would, now. It had been four hundred and twenty eight days since They'd invaded, and Romain Bardet was in hell. 

\- 

No one knew why They had bothered to invade at all. Perhaps They didn't consider that They had; certainly Their invasion had not been a conventional one. There had been no shots fired, no armies, no troops landed. There had been no threats. One day They had simply been there, drifting about the landscape like the clouds They resembled, Their ships in orbit above; a set of fixed new stars. 

Naturally, the Americans, among others, had made efforts to repel Them. But things simply... stopped... around Them. First weapons then vehicles then machines, and then, sometimes, people. Romain supposed that somewhere deep underground, in a secret bunker of the kind he'd seen in movies, the Americans were probably still planning a counterstrike. But for himself, there was no hope there. They were more alien than anything ever dreamed of by humanity, Their ways and means no more comprehensible than those of a man would seem to a virus. 

\- 

They had first appeared over France. Although They made no attempt to communicate, Their creatures spoke for Them. Apparently Their greatest desire was that human happiness be preserved. They hadn't understood what that meant, of course, but They had intended that life continue as it had before. Without communications, without power, without any foreknowledge of when a seemingly dead appliance would sputter into life, and when it would again cease to function. But They rarely seemed to affect farm tools, so there was always bread. And so, of course, there had to be circuses. 

\- 

As Romain navigated the final hairpin, the slope of the climb eased off to a mere 6%. Here, Their creatures could match him, their mechanical movements capable of turning a larger gear than any mere human muscles. He was holding himself back, working well within his limits, saving everything for the descent. 

Of course, today he was alone, or as near to it as he ever was any more. Their creatures had no need to train, but They had determined that it was optimum for Romain, and so he did. He'd once tried to protest, but with the utmost gentleness Their creatures had taken him and set him upon his bike, surrounding him with their too-chill bodies until They were satisfied he understood what he must do. Happiness had to be maintained, and Romain was a symbol of happiness for the people of France. He hadn’t tried to protest again. 

But today, here, he could lose himself in the climb. It didn't matter to Them if he climbed well or poorly, for They had nothing to compare his performance to. Once, when They'd made Romain race, he'd stopped and got off. Their creatures had stopped too, and waited, patient as stones. 

They hadn't understood that the Tour de France was a race lasting a mere three weeks. They hadn't understood that for all his life Romain had dreamed of winning the Tour, and that now things could never be otherwise, something inside of him had broken which even They could not mend. He'd come to hate the sight of yellow. 

\- 

As he reached the top of the climb, Their creatures stationed there burst into a rhythmic hitting, which Romain had eventually realised was supposed to be clapping. He ignored them, as he did every day. For all he knew they were the same creatures, fixed to the spot as permanently as though they were rooted there, with but one purpose in life, if indeed they were even alive at all. 

Romain sped past them, and only then did he start to really push himself. He'd always loved descending. It was as close as he could come to flying, and for a few giddy moments he felt he was going almost fast enough to escape Them. 

Behind him was what resembled a team car. They didn't, of course, understand what it was there for. It followed Romain at a respectful 25m distance, matching his pace, but it could move as only They could when necessary. Once Romain had taken a corner recklessly, and as he'd fallen, he'd thought that even They couldn't make him ride with broken bones. 

He'd fallen towards a roadside ditch, and landed without a scratch against the soft surface of what wasn't a team car, and his heart had wept within him. 

\- 

After that, Romain had adopted a new strategy. He couldn't deliberately injure himself – They would not allow it – but he could, perhaps, push just a little in that direction every day. After the first few dizzying hairpins, the road became a long, straight descent along the edge of the cliff, the water surging against the rocks far below. He'd tried plunging over the cliff edge, on a day so dark that even the descent hadn't stirred any joy within him. They'd caught him before he'd even begun to fall, and Romain had learned there was no escape that way. 

And yet, with every day which passed, he steered a little closer to the drop. There was no certainty that They were any less watchful when action was slow rather than abrupt, but Romain had to try something. He'd lost all hope a long time ago, but there was a faint inextinguishable flicker within him that said he might at least be able to make an end. 

Today the sun was shining on the water far below, a gentle breeze setting the light dancing across the waves. It was late in the year for what to every appearance was summer, but the seasons too didn't seem to work the way they had before. Somewhere doubtless there were astronomers who could explain it, but for all Romain knew They had simply stopped the Earth in its orbit, so that it would never again be other than July. 

Romain didn't touch his brakes on the descent. He didn't make any effort to compensate for the camber of the road, but let it push him ever closer towards the fall and the water. He didn't look round to see the team car he knew would be cresting the hill behind him, and then abruptly he did, too used to hope being crushed to bear its painful weight. 

So he wasn't watching the road, and when the crash came he wasn't filled with joy, but rather with complete bewilderment and utter indignation. 

\- 

The fall knocked the breath out of him, and the helmet over his eyes, and Romain was too old a hand at this to get up immediately. He lay still and let his thought roam down his body, touching on multiple bruises but nothing more serious. To his own surprise Their failure to prevent his fall wasn't a blessed relief, but instead deeply frustrating, as though They had changed the rules he was forced to live by. 

Once sure he wasn't injured, Romain reached up to straighten his helmet. There was a part of him which would have liked to lie in the quiet ditch forever, but he knew They wouldn't allow that. And it was better to get back onto his own feet than to be set upon them. 

He undid the strap, twisted uncomfortably under his ear, pulled it off and blinked in the bright sunlight, and looked up into the face of Warren Barguil. 

\- 

An enormous sense of relief settled over Romain. He almost felt giddy with it, such was the effect of post-crash adrenaline being left behind in a place he needed never visit again. 

“Wawa?” he whispered, voice shaking. 

“Yes,” Warren said, his smile as brilliant as ever. “It's me – ” 

“They wouldn't let me die before,” Romain said, with a laugh that was pure relief. He'd never been entirely convinced about heaven, and he certainly hadn't imagined the ditch, but Warren was there, and They were not, and that was enough that he couldn't argue it wasn't paradise. 

Warren's smile dimmed a little. “You're not dead,” he said gently. “You crashed. It was the only way. Did you hit your head?” 

Romain looked up at him, at that dear familiar face he hadn't seen for four hundred and twenty eight days, and reflected that this was a strange heaven indeed, if even Warren didn't know. “You are,” he said with equal gentleness. “When They came – you were lost. You were all lost. I looked.” 

“I'm not dead, and neither are you,” Warren said, smile fading entirely into concern. “There isn't much time. Can you leave – you don't want to stay, with Them?” 

“Stay,” Romain repeated, and Warren drew back a little at whatever he saw in his face. 

“I can get you away,” he promised. “Tomorrow – bring anything you need. Will you trust me?” 

“Where?” Romain said without moving, content simply to lie there and look up at this miracle. 

“Here. Tomorrow, on your usual ride,” Warren said urgently. “Just one more day, brave heart. Bring anything you need – are you listening? I have to go, They're coming – ” 

“No,” Romain said, struggling to sit up. “Wawa, no – ” 

“Tomorrow,” Warren said in a voice which wasn't nearly as steady as he clearly intended it to be. He squeezed Romain's hands, and then he was vaulting over the ditch, to vanish into the field of flowers. 

Romain was still sitting there, cold and shaking, when the thing which wasn't a team car rolled to a halt beside him. 

\- 

They weren't ever kind, because They never understood that anything might be wrong, nor how to fix things if it were. In the end Romain simply got back on his bike and rode on, because no matter that his heart was more shaken and bruised than his body, today They had decreed that he would complete his training ride, so that was what he had to do. 

He forgot to ride well within his capacity. He was no stranger to riding with far worse injuries than a few bruises, and right then he welcomed the push and pull of hard working muscles, the catch in his breath, the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears. Far better to put it down to the exertion. 

After another 95km of deliberately not thinking about about whatever he had seen, one thing at least had become clear: Romain was most definitely not dead. Heaven certainly did not contain 16% ramps into a headwind, nor could hell contain Warren, and the only place Romain had ever heard of which contained both was called life. 

He didn't believe in ghosts, but then he'd never believed in aliens, before Them. He certainly believed in head injuries. 

\- 

There wasn't a team doctor any more, only one of Their creatures, and while he was examined Romain wondered what he would do if he were told he couldn't train the next day. It was more painful to hope and have it shattered, that he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt. And yet... and yet. If he didn't take this chance there might never be another. He had at least learned that They couldn't catch him during every fall. Warren might have been a ghost, or only a memory shaken loose by a knock to the head, but Romain would gladly hit his head again if it meant seeing Warren. And there was always the possibility of that darker road. 

Their creature pronounced him fit, and Romain's decision was made for him. He'd ride tomorrow, as though in truth he possessed the courage Warren had always credited him with, and if his hopes were in fact the only ghost, well. The darker road would still be waiting. 

\- 

It didn't take him long to pack. What could he possibly want to take? At the end of one road there was no need for any possessions, and if he were indeed going to be with Warren there was nothing he would feel the lack of. In the end Romain opted for his keys and wallet and his phone, useless though they all were now. But old habits died hard, and they were all small enough to be easily concealed. 

There was nothing else he needed. Romain laid on his bed and tried to sleep, but his heart was beating out _tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow_. They couldn't, or wouldn't, force sleep upon him, but They would know if he deviated from the routine They had set. And perhaps They would change his training schedule, and though Warren would wait he wouldn't come, and Romain would never see him again. 

At last he slipped into an uneasy doze, and dreamed of falling from a great height, fear behind him and a familiar voice at his side, but ahead only darkness. 

\- 

In the morning light, practicality reasserted itself. Romain couldn't conceal much clothing about him without looking like he'd gained 5kg overnight, and although he didn't know if They had eyes with which to notice, he nonetheless didn't intend to flee in extremely identifiable AG2R kit. With a struggle he managed to pack underwear and a shirt into a pair of bidons, before stuffing shoes and jeans into the back pockets of his jersey in place of his rain jacket. 

He dreaded the weather turning. But the skies remained clear, and the sun shone, and the climb seemed steeper than ever, as too big a part of Romain wasn't sure he _wanted_ to reach the top, and find he'd only been dreaming. He'd never had a problem with sudden boldness in the heat of the moment, but this was very different from a race, and the weight of hope and expectation was almost more than he could bear. 

Romain crested the summit, and Their creatures applauded, and then he was on the descent, and for better or for worse he'd made his choice. He didn't know what Warren was planning – if indeed it truly had been Warren – nor what he might be called to do. He didn't know of any way the team car could be prevented from intervening, nor truly believe there was any way They could be defied. Yet Warren had asked for his trust, so here Romain was. 

He was watching the road this time, every nerve keyed to breaking point, squeezing out every bit of speed he could. If he were wrong, if he were mistaken, Romain asked only that he be allowed to power past the meeting point, through it and gone and far away before the pain began to touch him. 

He was watching the road this time, so it was an even bigger shock when Romain once again crashed into something which wasn't there. 

\- 

He wasn't given the chance to make an inventory of his injuries. No sooner had he hit the ground than Romain was yanked to his feet. He was bruised on top of yesterday's bruises, and his left hip felt as though he'd lost most of the skin there, but it was Warren. Warren was there. Nothing in the world could hurt Romain at that moment. 

“Anything on here you need?” Warren said, snatching Romain's bike up from the ground. 

“No,” Romain whispered. Warren was here, real and alive, and although he too had bruises under his eyes, he was here, he wasn't dead, he was _alive_. 

“These?” Warren said, holding out the bidons. Romain took them automatically, then started forward in horror when Warren tossed his bike over the edge of the cliff. His bike had been his only source of comfort for four hundred and twenty eight days, and – 

The protest died on his lips when it _twisted_ in mid-air, an unnatural writhing that nothing made of carbon fibre and metal could ever mimic. There was a sharp cry, which was abruptly cut off. Romain felt sick. 

Before he had any time to dwell on what had happened, Warren grabbed his hand, and then they were running, jumping the ditch in one bound into the field of flowers, zigzagging back and forth as Warren followed some path Romain couldn't see. At last they reached an outcropping of rock that Romain had never noticed from the road, grey and cool despite the warmth of the sun. Warren gave him a push and then they were climbing, scrabbling for handholds until they tumbled over the ridge at the top, landing on the sun-baked dirt, dusty and dry. 

Romain understood then. Here they could lie and watch the road, unseen themselves. But surely They wouldn't be fooled into thinking him dead? For that matter, why hadn't They prevented him crashing on either occasion? And where were They, and why weren't They taking him back? He'd spent so long following the rhythm of Their days that it didn't seem possible that They could be thwarted so easily. 

He thought of his bike, and shuddered, and tried to think of something else. There was still nothing on the road, only dust and the July heat, and far away in the distance the crying of seagulls. Romain opened his mouth, a thousand questions tumbling over each other, and Warren turned at once, gesturing him urgently to silence. 

Warren squeezed Romain's hand, softening his insistence, then returned to watching the road. Romain couldn't bring himself to look. They would come for him – They always had, and he didn't doubt They always would – and They would take Warren away, and today would evaporate like dew on the grass, like mist on the hills, like anything frail and too beautiful to last. 

Warren's hand was warm in his, and it was only then that Romain realised his own shaking hands were cold, burningly cold. He lay against the cool stone, holding onto Warren's warm, living hand, and all around the world was as still as if They had never come. 

\- 

When Romain woke up, it was a shock to realise he'd been sleeping. The sun had gone, and he was afraid to turn round, to find none of it had been real, that it had been a dream, that They were the only ones waiting for him. 

He lay there, not allowing himself to look, not allowing himself to hope. It was half-dark, the sky a pale gold in the west, slowly being blotted out by towering clouds. Romain wondered if it would rain. He felt like crying himself, or at least lying there until the raindrops fell down his face. 

Warren appeared from around the side of the rock, and Romain took a long, slow breath. The tension rolled away into the night. It felt like falling asleep again. 

“Come with me,” Warren said, the last golden light shining about him as he held his hand out. He didn't speak again. Romain took his hand, and followed him towards the edge of the cliff. He thought he knew where Warren was leading him, and he wasn't afraid any more. 

\- 

As it turned out, he wasn't just wrong, but bafflingly so. Romain had ridden down this road four hundred and twenty-eight times, on four hundred and twenty-eight weary, heartsick days, and he knew the cliffs the way he had once known his own home roads. There was a sheer drop to the ugly, jagged rocks below, where the waves rolled in ceaselessly to be torn to foaming shreds. There certainly wasn't a cliff path. 

Yet there was one now. Warren led him steadily down, and even the sea seemed gentler, kinder. Romain wasn't even surprised when he saw the boat tied to the rocks, the water lapping softly against it. He stepped in, and Warren cast off, and they floated away. 

Romain lay down in the boat, lulled by the rocking of the waves. The sky was almost completely dark now, with only a patch of luminous, more transparent blue to guide them westward. Warren smiled, only faintly visible through the darkness, and a great weariness came over Romain. He drifted away, borne out on the tides of sleep, and the sounds of the sea followed him down into dreaming. 

– – – – 

In the dream, They had never come. The last four hundred and twenty-eight days were a dream themselves, and it brought tears to Romain's eyes to be riding beside his teammates again, although he couldn't quite remember why. The radio in his ear crackled, and he started, and then wondered why he was surprised by something so ordinary. 

He didn't catch the message, and he started looking to see if anyone else was reacting. They weren't, but expectant faces were turning back round, looking at him, waiting for him to act. Romain wanted to protest that he didn't know what to do, that he wanted someone, anyone else to take the responsibility. Pierre Latour leant over and shouted something, but the words fell like nonsense syllables on Romain's ear. 

“What?” he said, or tried to, as he struggled to think of what to do. “Attack?” he suggested, although he couldn't remember the route, couldn't remember the roadbook, couldn't remember where he was riding to or from or why. It was the right answer, Romain was almost sure, but he knew as he said it that he was too late, too late... 

– – – – 

When Romain woke the dream was still with him, but then it slipped into the darkness, sliding away to merge with the gentle music of the waves. 

“We're nearly here,” Warren said, his voice as warm and reassuring as a hand held in the dark. Romain nodded, although Warren couldn't possibly see him, and let the summer night wrap around him like a blanket. The wind was warm, the sea air mingling with something sweet and earthy like the scent of a garden far away. In the distance the seagulls were crying, but the sound of the waves transmuted what Romain had always heard as the saddest of sounds into something filled with joy. 

Something inside Romain had been tensed for so long that he didn't even realise it was relaxing. He was weary to his very bones, but no matter where Warren was taking him, so long as they weren't parted, Romain knew he could find rest. 

He was almost asleep again by the time the boat's keel grated against something. Warren jumped out, and after a few moments the flicker of a candle gave Romain his first look at the place Warren had brought him to. 

The boat had come to rest on a strip of shingle, dark cliffs stretching up to trees high above swaying in the wind. Further along a small river splashed noisily down the cliff, before winding out through the stones to the sea. 

“There,” Warren said, pointing. He handed Romain the candle, and picked the boat up. Romain began to protest – surely it would be easier with two – but Warren just grinned at him, that old cheeky smile which made Romain's heart turn over painfully. It had been so _long_ since he hadn’t been alone. 

As they started walking, Romain caught the scent of rain, and within moments the first single fat drops had become a downpour. They crowded together under the boat, while Romain shielded the candle and tried not to slip on the wet stones. 

The rain slackened for a moment, as though taking a breath, and then came down like a curtain. Warren grabbed Romain's hand, the candle held between them, and with one hand each on the boat they started running. Romain was so happy his heart hurt. By the time they reached the cliffs they were both breathless and laughing, and alive, alive, _alive_. 

Warren reached up, pushing back the branches of a low tree to reveal a steep sandy path winding up beside the river. He jumped up to the first ledge, holding his arms out for the boat, and Romain set the candle down to pass it up to him. Warren took the boat, lifting it smoothly, and the candle hissed and went out. 

“It's okay,” Warren said, still laughing. “I'll guide you. Take my hand.” 

It didn't occur to Romain to wonder how Warren could climb a hill in the dark, no matter how well he knew the way. He took Warren's hand and let himself be led, and although the path sloped steeply upwards it was always walkable, and never a climb. 

As they walked Romain was aware of green, growing things all around him. He was never brushed by any branches, nor did he slip on wet grass, but he was aware nonetheless that leaves were moving on either side of them, whispering soft secrets of the night to the rain and the sea. 

It was warmer beneath the trees. Romain was wet through, but he didn't feel cold or uncomfortable. Even his hip didn't hurt any more. The breaking of the waves quietened a little as they walked, and Romain began to hear the rain pattering on the leaves above him as a separate sound. He could hear the seagulls again, far away, and although he walked like a man in a dream there was something about their crying that still touched his heart painfully. 

Warren squeezed his hand, and Romain forgot the gulls. Soon enough, although the whole day had felt timeless to Romain, Warren stopped, drawing him forward onto some flatter surface which sounded like wooden planks beneath Romain's feet. “Here,” he said softly. “We can rest. Do you need anything?” 

Romain let Warren pull him down to the ground, encountering something much softer than the hard boards he was expecting. “Stay,” he said suddenly afraid that if he let go he'd wake to find none of it had been real. 

“Yes,” Warren said, and Romain could hear the smile in his voice, and feel the gentle pressure of his fingers. Romain lay down, his head coming to rest on what felt extraordinarily like a pillow, and he was aware of the warmth of Warren's body beside him, and the comfort of their joined hands. 

“Sleep,” Warren whispered, and for the third time that day Romain drifted away. 

– – – –  


In the morning Romain awoke with a thousand questions on his lips. But he didn't voice any of them, as for the first time in four hundred and twenty nine days, he woke to hope. Above him the late morning sunlight filtered gently through the leaves, painting everything with splashes of gold, and Romain lay there for a long time just watching the trees dance in the breeze. 

It was a movement beside him that drew him out of his thoughts. Warren murmured something softly indistinguishable into Romain's shoulder, then rolled on to his back and started snoring. 

It was such an ordinary, _human_ sound that Romain couldn't help but laugh silently to himself. Their creatures were intended to pass for human, but They had never thought to include what They must have seen as the design flaws. Warren was just a man, frail and impermanent and warm and real and human. Romain didn't remember the last time he'd felt this contented. 

When Warren woke up, Romain was still happy and silent. He couldn't find any words for the joy he felt. But Warren didn't say anything either, just grinned and dragged him in a breathless chase down to the boat, to go and fish for their breakfast. 

It turned into a competition, which was a different kind of joy. They had stacked the deck by removing every other card in it, but Warren was just as competitive as he'd ever been. More luck than skill was involved, but losing honestly was more satisfying to Romain than every win They'd manufactured for him. 

Warren rowed them back to shore, and while he lit a fire, Romain gutted and cleaned the fish. It was the least sophisticated meal he’d ever eaten, and nothing in his life had ever tasted so good. When they'd finished they washed in the stream, and then Warren sat beside him on a fallen log, and Romain could no longer put his questions aside. 

His biggest fear was Them, of course, but Warren shook his head, his eyes warm and reassuring. He began telling Romain that something in the rocks of the valley repelled Them, ensuring that They never came near. He showed Romain what looked like a very ordinary piece of stone, and told him that carrying it had protected him for all four hundred and twenty-nine days of Their invasion. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Five bad ends (chapters 2-6) and one good one (chapter 7)


	2. in which only the aliens are real

“You're not him, are you?” Romain said, the realisation clicking into place inside him no matter how desperately he tried to deny it. 

“No, I'm not,” the man sitting next to him said, his voice very gentle. 

“Where is he?” Romain demanded, stumbling to his feet and backwards and _away_ from this imposter, this intruder, who had sat beside him and smiled Warren's sweet smile; held his hand with Warren's warm, strong hand. 

“Your Wawa is perfectly safe,” the man said, and Romain wanted to say that he could tell the difference, that he could see at once that _this_ smile wasn't Warren's, but he couldn't, he couldn't, he _couldn't_. “We have him stored safely.” 

“Don't call him that!” Romain said, unable to stop himself. 

“But you do,” the man who looked exactly like Warren said, inclining his head curiously. 

“You don't,” Romain insisted, shaking with what he was trying very hard to convince himself was entirely anger. “How _dare_ you take him – what have you done to him?” 

The man on the log just looked at him kindly, and Romain felt cold, and sick, and very, very alone. “All the time?” he choked out eventually. “He wasn't – it wasn’t ever – ” 

“He is important to you,” the man said mildly. “We did not wish for you to become distressed. Please, calm yourself. You are deranging your bodily functions.” 

It'd been a long time since Romain threw a punch at anybody. He was meant to be an ambassador for his sport, and he dreaded being in the papers, and he was a 65kg climber. There weren't many people in the world who would feel intimidated by him. 

But he couldn't stop his hands clenching into fists, couldn't stop himself lurching towards this _thing_ sitting there wearing Warren's face, couldn't control the incandescent blazing fury that drove him to pull back his arm and – 

And he couldn't do it. It wasn't Warren, but it was Warren's face turned up to him trustingly, Warren's hands resting lightly in his lap, relaxed and accepting of whatever violence Romain offered him. 

The flame went out. Cold and hurting, Romain sat down on the log again. “What's happening to me?” he asked. 

“I believe you would refer to me as one of Them,” the man said, and a cold shudder trickled down Romain's spine. 

“That was real?” he said, desperate to know. “You did – you _made me_ –” 

“We are very interested in you, Romain Bardet,” the man said, and smiled Warren's smile, and Romain's heart clenched tightly against the weight of his grief. “Very interested indeed.” 

“They died,” Romain whispered. “I knew they were dead. I told Wawa he – you – ” 

“Oh no, no, no, your compatriots are not dead!” the man said. “Such a waste! We have them all quite safe in one of our archives.” 

Romain didn't understand what that meant. “And me?” he asked. “Where – what – ” 

“You yourself are on the way to our homeworld,” the man who wasn't Warren said cheerfully. “But I'm afraid your species is very set in its ways. We felt a simulation of your natural environment would be more comfortable.” 

“Why _me?_ ” Romain protested. “I'm not special, I'm _not –_ ” 

“Oh dear me, you certainly are!” said the man. “Why, your microbiome is over 1.25% more diverse than any we have yet studied! There is so much we can learn from you.” 

“What?” Romain said, unable to process this. 

“Your body is made from many smaller parts called cells, too small for your natural vision to see,” the man began. “Within it there exists a much smaller form of life, made from a lesser – ” 

“I know what bacteria are,” Romain said, voice shaking. “I'll give you a tissue sample or something. Just let me go wherever Wa- where everyone else is – I'll go back, I'll ride for you, I'll do whatever you want, I'll – ” 

“I'm afraid that is no longer possible,” the man told him. “Our tests require a live subject. I can assure you that you will not perceive any pain.” 

“Take me back,” Romain pleaded. “Let me go _home_ – ” 

The man sighed, regarding him with a rather disappointed frown. “I'm afraid we cannot. Your species regards reality through a very narrow set of filters. I advise you to prepare yourself.” And with that, the world around Romain _dissolved_. The log, the trees, the sea and sky all turned to ash, grey and then black, melting into darkness, until the man opposite him was all that was left. And then he too began to melt and change into something Romain's narrow-filtered mind couldn't comprehend, only a pair of eyes still gleaming faintly through the dark. 

“Turn around,” a voice said inside Romain's head, the words like a physical pressure, too sharp and too quiet and laden with a sense of colour and the taste of ozone. Romain turned as though the words had physically moved his body, and he looked. 

Before him, below him, behind him was darkness, a nothingness so vast that the weight of it robbed him of breath. And in the centre was a faint and tiny pinwheel, shining in soft golds and blues. 

Romain began screaming. 

He was still screaming when what was definitely no longer a man carried him to a pod; his eyes blankly staring and fixed on all that nothing. He was still screaming when the pod began filling with dark liquid, still screaming until it covered his mouth and nose, still screaming until – 

– 

The fall knocked the breath out of him, and the helmet over his eyes, and Romain was too old a hand at this to get up immediately. He was shaking with what could only be post-crash adrenaline, but he let his thought roam down his body with lightning speed, and to his surprise he wasn't even bruised. 

Relieved he wasn't hurt, Romain reached up to pull off his helmet. Time was of the essence, but he needed to see what he was doing to get back on his bike. He undid the strap, twisted uncomfortably under his chin, and blinked in the bright sunlight. 

And looked up into the face of Warren Barguil. 


	3. in which the aliens make a deal

Romain didn't know where to look. He couldn't think of anything to say. It was so obviously nonsense, and Warren was so very sincere, and Romain had lived through hell only to find out if it was in fact possible to die of embarrassment. He stumbled out a few awkward, half-hearted words. 

Warren looked hurt. “I didn't believe either at first,” he said, getting up and walking to the edge of the stones. “But I've been protected, haven't I? I'll show you. There's one of Them over the sea now.” 

“No!” Romain said, adrenaline surging. “No – I know you believe this but _you don't know what They do to you_. We have to go _now_ – ” 

“Trust me, brave heart,” Warren said, and smiled, and began walking out across the shingle. Romain cursed and ran after him, trying to pull him back to the all too inadequate cover of the trees. 

“Please,” he said, heart hammering in his chest as he noticed two more of Them approaching. “I believe you, I do – you don't have to, come back, _please_ Wawa – ” 

“Then trust me,” Warren said, smiling at him. Romain would always remember him like that, with the sunlight dancing in his eyes, the sky so blue behind him, and nothing in his heart but happiness and hope. 

And then, as the first of Them came near, Warren... stopped. Romain was looking right at him, as the sparkle in Warren's bright eyes died, and their warm brown faded to grey. There was a sharp cracking sound, and Romain thought for a moment it was the sound of what was left of his heart breaking. Warren's hand was no longer alive in his, but cold as marble. On the ground, at their feet, lay the pieces of his talisman. 

When Romain came back to himself, he was kneeling on the ground with Warren's head cradled in his lap, and it had to be raining, because Warren's face was wet. Three of Them hovered close by, surrounding him, and one of Their creatures was approaching from the sea. With a shudder, Romain wondered if it had walked across the seabed. It didn't seem to matter that They had found him. Nothing mattered very much any more. 

Warren was still, and he was cold. Cold like They were, as nothing alive and human ever should be. Romain was kneeling on the shingle, and the wet stones pressed hard into his knees and hurt him. Far off, he could hear the seagulls crying. 

“You will return with us,” Their creature told him. Romain gently brushed the raindrops off Warren's face, and the bright morning felt to him like it had been a thousand years ago. 

“Restart him again,” he said, too weary to shout and scream. “Then I'll come with you.” 

One of Them shifted position, moving closer to Their creature, as though they were conferring. 

“A bargain?” Their creature said. “Do you think you are in a position to make a bargain, Romain Bardet?” 

Romain shook his head, wiping the rain out of his eyes. “You want me,” he said, knowing it to be true. “I don't know why but you want me. Undo this, _restart_ him again – please, I'll ride for you, I won't try and escape again, I'll doanything – ” 

There was a pause that lasted forever. Romain was so weary he wanted to fall asleep and wake up in a world where his biggest worry was not being able to time trial, or else not wake up at all. Warren was so still, and he didn't move even though the rain was falling harder now. Romain put his arms round him, holding him, and it was like hugging a statue. He was almost as cold as Warren, and one of them was shaking, and it had to be Romain, because Warren was still as stone. 

“Very well,” Their creature said, and Romain took what felt like his first breath after minutes under deep water. “An excellent motivational tool, this attachment.” 

Romain couldn't lie, couldn't pretend that Warren meant nothing to him. Even They, unfamiliar as They were with the ways of humans, knew better. 

“I'll come back with you,” he said shakily. “But _please_ – ” 

“We shall restart him when we are satisfied you have upheld your end of the bargain,” Their creature said. “We will return you here in twelve thousand of your hours, and he will be restarted for twelve, and you will be permitted to visit with him. An incentive.” 

“What?” Romain said, his voice cracking and fading away into nothing. “No – _no_ – you _can't_...” And even as he said it, he knew that it wasn't true. They could, and They would, do exactly as They saw fit. 

“A bargain,” Their creature said. “Come with us, now.” 

“I can't leave him here on the beach,” Romain said, his arms tightening round Warren. 

“Then we will move him to the higher ground,” Their creature said, and stepped forward. 

“ _Don't touch him_ ,” Romain spat out, low and dangerous. It wasn't easy to lift Warren. He was frozen in an awkward position, and his weight kept pulling Romain off-balance. He slipped on the wet stones, and the rain kept getting in his eyes, so that everything blurred around him. They and Their creature followed behind, and Romain was breathless by the time he'd climbed the cliff, his chest hurting. 

He laid Warren beneath the trees, where the splashes of golden sunshine would dance for him in the morning. He moved the pillow so it cushioned Warren's head. He drew the blanket up, tucking it around him as if Warren were only sleeping. And then Romain set the fragments of Warren's talisman down beside him, and tried not to think of Warren lying here alone while darkness fell across the sea. 

“Come, then,” Their creature said, with a touch of impatience. 

Romain knelt beside Warren, and for the last time in twelve thousand hours he took Warren's still, cold hand between his. He meant to tell Warren that he'd have stayed with Them rather than let him be hurt, that he'd come back as soon as They allowed it. He meant to tell Warren that he'd be as brave as Warren had always said he was, that Warren had to be brave too. 

But as Their creature pulled him away, he was just repeating Warren's name over and over. Their creature pulled him away, and Romain was led down the hill to Warren's boat, and taken back over the sea and far away. He didn't know how long twelve thousand hours was, but he knew that he'd have agreed to twelve hundred thousand, if They'd demanded it. 

The sea was rougher on the way back, although the sun still shone, as it always did now. Romain lay in the boat, and he didn't sleep, and all around him the air was full of seagulls crying. 


	4. in which the aliens get them both

There was a saying Romain had heard once, long ago: that hell was an office party where there was always an eternity remaining before one could leave. He'd never worked in an office, and Romain knew now he never would. It had been one thousand four hundred and sixty one days since They'd invaded, and Romain Bardet was in hell. 

“I can't,” Warren said, his speed slackening as he lost Romain's wheel. “I _can't_ – ” 

“Yes you can,” Romain said, slowing his own pace until they were riding side by side. He was three hundred and fifty three days older than Warren. Today, yesterday, and through all of their endlessly repeating days, he felt that he'd lived for at least another hundred years. “Come on, we'll ride together.” 

There were bruises under Warren's eyes all the time now. Despite Their insistence that the two of them follow what They had determined was the optimal training plan, They had never made allowances for the human heart. They wouldn't allow Warren to harm himself by his own hand or Romain's, but Romain didn't know if it were possible to die of a broken heart. And shamefully, selfishly, he wouldn't, couldn't, let Warren take that road. He couldn't go back to being alone with Them, he _couldn't_ – 

“Take my hand,” he said, holding it out to Warren. It had almost become a ritual. Romain had had over a year alone, with nothing but the inescapable reality of Their plans for him. After almost three years with Romain by his side, Warren was still struggling. They were on a flat, straight road, and Romain knew there were at least sixty kilometres to go before either of them would need to do more than just pedal in a line. 

Warren took his hand. He didn't look at Romain, and Romain's heart ached with useless regrets. What was the point in being ashamed of needing comfort? The two of them had each other, and that was all they would ever have, now. He couldn't make anything better, except this, with his words. 

“It's raining,” he began, going back to the familiar picture in his mind. It was a sunny day on the road they were riding, just as it always was, but the picture was almost real to him by now. “The leaves are all turning to brown. It's starting to get colder in the mornings. And darker, too. We'll need to start thinking about preparing for winter soon.” 

Warren didn't say anything, but his fingers twitched a little against Romain's. Warren always had cold hands these days, despite the perpetual July heat. Romain longed to tell him to put his gloves on, but he knew Warren needed the warmth and reassurance of their clasped hands. 

“But we've thought of that,” he said, going back to the picture he was building for Warren. “You've been taking our boat out every day, fishing. There's all the salt in the world right there in the sea, so we can preserve the fish easily. Perhaps you've built a smokehouse for it. I've been gardening. It's more than a garden, now. I've cleared all the land behind the cliff, and it's become a small farm. There are chickens, and a goat or two. Behind the farm's what used to be an orchard. There are so many fruit trees there.” 

“You can dry fruit,” Warren said softly, while Romain racked his brains as to what else he could add. “In a barn, I suppose.” 

“We've been building several barns,” Romain said at once. “It wasn't easy, but we learned together. There's space there for plenty of stores. They're built right up against the cliff, so when it snows they're not cut off. Our next project is making a covered walkway to join them together.” 

“I want a corridor,” Warren said with a soft sigh. “So even when the snow is piled up outside we can walk from one to the other, and never have to go outside into the cold.” 

“We talked it over, and that's what we decided on,” Romain said, taking what now passed for an energy bar out of his jersey and ripping it open. He broke it in half, and handed the bigger piece to Warren. The limitations of mortal humanity were forgotten often enough by Them, and Warren mostly considered it a wasted effort to take any care of himself. Romain was more on top of his own feeding and hydration than ever he'd been in the dim and distant past, simply because he had to be mindful for both of them now. 

“We decided to build a corridor, and that meant we could connect it to the house too. It's so snug in there now, especially since we got the dog...” 

\- 

The next day was what They referred to as a race day, and it was Romain's turn to be lost to despair. He was surrounded by Their creatures, and he was twenty-nine years old. He was dying by slow degrees, and it was going to take him an entire lifetime to do so. 

Warren pushed his way through the ranks of Their creatures. It was slow going, as they massed so much more than he did, but he was more nimble, and could slip through the gaps they left between themselves. They didn't react, even when he pushed them out of the way. That wasn't what they were there for. 

At last Warren pushed his way to Romain's side. “Take my hand,” he said with a sad smile. It was the first time Romain had seen him with any kind of a smile at all for far too many days. It made his heart hurt. He didn't hesitate to reach out. 

“Tell me about the house,” he said. And as Warren began to build a wall of words around them, they rode on hand in hand, surrounded by Their creatures, into the future that stretched out for ever and ever and ever. 


	5. in which the world ends in rain

“I won’t be long,” Warren said, lowering the boat into the water. 

“Okay,” Romain said. 

“Just as much as I can get before the tide turns,” Warren promised. “I’ll be gone and back before you even know it.” 

“Okay,” Romain said. 

“You won’t even have time to miss me,” Warren called back, as he settled his oars into place and began to row with the firm, smooth strokes born of long practice. 

“Okay,” Romain said. He stood on the edge of the wooden platform, and it felt like he was the one moving, slipping away backwards while Warren was the one fixed point in the world. Romain lifted his hand to wave, but by the time he’d completed the gesture Warren was gone, and only Romain and the rain were left behind. He’d got a list of things to do, but none of them seemed very urgent. None of them _were_ very urgent. None of them mattered, because they were all make-work, little pointless tasks that would keep him busy till Warren returned. 

Warren worried, if he found out that Romain had done nothing but stare at the rain and at the water. He thought that was unhealthy. Sometimes Romain wished with all his heart that Warren wasn’t such a _coper_. 

The waves were lapping at the edge of the platform. Romain crouched down awkwardly, then slipped with relief into the warm water. He could limp back and forth across the platform, but it was harder than he liked to admit. The water supported him, and he’d always been a strong swimmer. Even with his left leg all but useless, it was easier than walking. 

Warren worried about him being in the water alone, as though he wasn’t the one sailing off into the rain to destinations unknown. Sometimes when his hip was hurting more than usual, when the rain was at its heaviest, when the tide was rising and there was no dry place left in all the world, Romain wondered if there were really anywhere left for Warren to go. It was a nonsensical thought, and he knew it, because Warren always came back with something that he’d scavenged from wherever the waters had reached to that day. But when his hip was hurting Romain was afraid that Warren was sailing away, and that one day there’d be nothing that drew him back to this wooden platform in the water, and to Romain. 

Once upon a time it had been a tall wooden tower. Once upon a time it had been a short wooden tower. Once upon a time it had been a desperately thrown together structure built upon the wreck of everything that had been lost to the water. Once upon a time they had been living on the clifftop, on the roof of their house, in the upper story, and back and back and back until things were as they’d been before They ever came. 

But that felt like another lifetime to Romain. He didn’t think about those days, any more than he thought about the year and a half he had spent with Them. When Warren had found him so unexpectedly, crashing back into his life, when Romain had broken his hip – that was as far back as he ever went. What was the point, thinking about another lifetime? It was no more real than anything beyond the rain and the water. 

Warren still felt guilty about Romain’s hip, as though it hadn’t been the best thing which had ever happened to him. It had healed, more or less, and he could still walk, and he could swim almost as well as he ever could, which was far more useful a skill. And he could never, ever ride a bike again, and with that he’d become of no use to Them, and that was a debt Romain could never repay to Warren. But he tried, so he swam back and forth round the platform and worked at the pointless jobs, so that Warren could tell himself Romain was keeping busy. 

A long time ago, when the platform had still been anchored to the land, Romain had marked where the tide rose up to each day. Warren had thought that unhealthy, so Romain had hidden the marks, notching them into the inner sides of the planks where Warren wouldn’t see them when he went out in the boat. Even back then they’d already discovered that Romain was just dead weight, his hip too unstable to manage an oar. 

Day after day, the marks had climbed, until the day the low tide was still above where once the high water had been. Warren hadn’t gone sailing much, then. He’d been too busy desperately trying to save what they could from the water. Romain had known in his heart the answer to that was nothing, but Warren had been so afraid, so he’d tried, and he’d helped, and he’d held Warren afterwards when at last Warren had realised that too. It rained every day, and the waters rose, but there were never storms any more. The platform rocked in the gentle waves, and it was a boat in all but name, and yet there they stayed, anchored above the spot they’d once called home. 

Romain’s jobs weren’t really pointless. He cleaned seaweed out of the turbine that provided them with power. He cleaned seaweed out of the water desalinator, the only thing they needed power for, the only thing they’d managed to save which was of any use. Everything else had been lost to the waves, and Romain knew Warren thought a lot about their home that had been, sunk fathoms deep like the lost city of Atlantis. Romain spent hours staring at the sea and the rain, but he didn’t pretend even to himself that he was coping well. 

But there was only so much seaweed to clean, and Warren only ever left little jobs to do, because he worried that anything more would be too painful for Romain's hip. And Romain couldn’t say that he did as much as he could from in the water where it was easy, that he wasn’t afraid of it, because he knew that Warren was. Warren thought one day he’d let go and just drift away, as though Romain hadn’t long ago lost all of his moorings. 

Romain was waiting for the day that Warren too came adrift. They couldn’t stay there, he thought every day, even as they did. Their home was long gone, and beneath them and around them were only the rolling waves. Every day Warren had to travel further and further to find dry land. Romain was afraid that the water would just keep rising until there was no more land, and like a modern-day Noah’s Ark they were left adrift upon an endless sea. Warren told him that there wasn’t enough water locked up as ice on the whole planet to drown the Alps, let alone the mighty Himalayas, but neither of them really knew if that were true. 

Warren was convinced They were melting the ice caps. Perhaps They were, or perhaps there was another reason, but what did it matter? The waters were still rising, and soon it would take Warren longer to reach dry land than the time between tides, and then perhaps he wouldn’t come back. 

The prospect didn’t worry Romain. It should, he knew, but he didn’t really feel things any more the way he’d used to. There was the time before he’d broken his hip, and then there was now, and now there was just the water, rising. When Warren was with him he tried so hard to kindle a fire in Romain’s heart, but there was nothing left to catch flame. The rain and the water had got in there a long time before. 

Once he’d finished clearing seaweed he lay on his back, floating, letting the water support him. He kept one hand on the platform. He wouldn’t let go today. Today he’d wait for Warren to come back, and when he heard the splash of oars he’d haul himself painfully out of the water and sit on the edge, and they’d both pretend that Romain had kept himself busy. 

But until then he’d just be driftwood, until the day he drifted away. 

____ 

“I won’t be long,” Warren said, as he lowered the boat down into the water. Not so very long ago it had taken both of them to do it. 

“Okay,” Romain said. 

“Just as much as I can get before the tide turns,” Warren promised. He always tried to give Romain something concrete to hang on to. Even without access to any kind of clock, they were both attuned to the rhythm of the tides. “I’ll be gone and back before you even know it.” 

“Okay,” Romain said. 

“You won’t even have time to miss me,” Warren called back, as he settled the oars into place and began to row. He tried to put as much cheerfulness as he could into his voice, making it into something bright and joyful that could reach across the water to Romain’s slight figure. 

“Okay,” Romain said, his voice dying away until it was lost in the sound of the rain. It swirled between the two of them as Warren rowed away, and then Warren was alone save for the rain and the sea. And he was afraid, so afraid, that one day he’d return to find Romain gone, and nothing waiting for him but a bare wooden platform and the falling rain. 

Each day Warren had to row a little further and for a little longer. Without the need to artificially keep his weight as low as possible, it was the most effective training regime he’d had since before They’d come. He’d lost a little of the muscle mass from his legs, but he’d more than gained it back in his arms and shoulders and in his core. 

There was no one to see, and no one to admire, but Warren couldn’t help but be a little proud of the results. Building any kind of muscle in his upper body had always been so completely off the table before, but he’d always been faintly annoyed by his skinny arms. 

Back when weight had been the most important number to his career, Warren had weighed in at somewhere between 60 and 61kg. Those thousand grammes had mattered a lot back then. He no longer had any scales, of course, but he guessed he’d settled at more like 70kg, and he felt fitter than ever. It was a strange insight into what his life might have been if he’d become a sprinter. 

Romain was 2cm taller than Warren, and his racing weight had been 65kg. Their height difference was so small that he should’ve looked heavier, but to Warren he never had. There had always been something achingly vulnerable about Romain’s narrow wrists, about the tilt of his slim hips, about the curve of his thin shoulders. 

And that had been before Them, and Romain had lost even more weight, until Warren worried that he’d disappear altogether. He knew that was nonsense: people stopped, and people died, but they didn’t disappear. And yet Romain was disappearing right before his eyes, and nothing Warren did seemed to make any difference. Romain would have a few bites of whatever Warren gave him, but they both knew he was only eating because Warren wanted him to. And he hadn’t gained any of the muscle Warren had, because Romain couldn’t row their boat. 

Romain could barely even walk, because Warren had broken his hip. 

He’d meant so well; to save Romain from Them, and he had, but at such a cost that Warren often wondered if it had been worth it. The two of them were together again, but the waters were still rising, and for all that They’d broken Romain’s heart, They’d taken care of his body. 

Warren had tried for weeks, months, to attract Romain’s attention without attracting Theirs, but he’d learned soon enough that Romain couldn’t even see him. The only things he knew of that could protect against Them and Their influence were the strange rocks which had so unexpectedly shielded him on the day They came. And so he’d built a line of rocks across the width of the road, and hoped. Crashing had been a part of their sport, and Romain knew how to fall. There weren’t any dangerous barriers for him to land against, and Warren was desperate, and he’d been so lonely that seeing Romain for a few seconds each day had been all that had kept him hanging on. 

And Romain had hit the rocks, and he’d crashed, and he’d landed all wrong. His leg had been twisted under him at such an angle that Warren could see at once that he was badly hurt, that he was injured, that _Warren had done that to him_ – 

And then They’d drifted up, like the clouds They resembled, while Warren stood there shaking, and Romain lay on the ground, his leg twisted under him and tears of agony pouring down his face. And They’d seemed to look him over, assuming that without eyes what They were doing was even remotely analogous to seeing, and then They’d drifted away. They’d ignored Romain, and They’d ignored Warren’s desperate, bitter pleas for help. He hadn’t seen any of Them again since. 

But Romain had lain in a heap on the ground, white as a sheet and trembling, and Warren had had to choke down his own nausea and splint his leg, and drag him to safety and then try to make him whole again. 

His time with Them had broken Romain’s heart. Warren had broken his hip. Romain could limp across the raft if he really tried, but sometimes Warren wondered that there was anything left of him at all. 

He’d taken Romain out in the boat with him once his hip had healed enough to allow him to sit up, thinking that a change of scene might help. But each day Warren had to row a little further to find dry land, and Romain could barely balance the weight of an oar, let alone use it. And Warren couldn’t bear the look on his face, and the knowledge that Romain would nonetheless try and try and try, no matter how much damage he was doing to himself. That willingness to hurt themselves endlessly in the pursuit of a greater goal had once been a strength, but now Warren was so afraid it was what would eventually kill them both. 

He dreamed all the time about life as it had been before. And sometimes he woke in the dim light before dawn and looked across at Romain lying quiet and still beside him, his eyes drenched with the constantly falling rain. And like a knife twisting guiltily inside him Warren missed Romain, _his_ Romain, who’d been passionate about politics and music, and an irritatingly committed perfectionist in all things, whether they were significant or not. He missed Romain’s dry sense of humour, the way he’d wax eloquent about trivial points just for the joy of debate, and the single minded focus he’d given to the things that mattered to him. 

The man who lay beside him was a quiet stranger who uncomplainingly fell in with whatever Warren suggested, and the thought would creep insidiously into his mind that it wasn’t _really_ Romain. Just as it couldn’t really be true that the world was ending not in fire but in rain, it couldn’t really be Romain. If Warren just waited there long enough, even though the home they’d once shared had long since passed beneath the waves, then perhaps one day he’d wake to find Romain by his side once more. 

It wasn’t healthy thinking like that, and Warren knew it, but he couldn’t ever suppress the thoughts for long. He was so afraid that Romain would read something in his look or in his touch to tell him what lay buried in Warren’s guilty heart, and blameless as he was Warren would only succeed in hurting him again. So he tried to bring Romain back to life, to keep him busy, to rekindle some kind of spark within him, no matter how small. But something in Romain which had once been ablaze had gone out, and it rained every day, and the waters kept rising. 

Soon it would be too far for Warren to row to dry land and back in one day. He’d have to choose, then, whether to move the platform if he could. And Warren knew that once they left he’d never find this place again, and their home would be gone forever, and with it the Romain he remembered. 

Perhaps by then the fire inside Warren would have died too, finally quenched by the rain. And perhaps he wouldn’t mind quite so much, the way nothing really seemed to trouble Romain any more. 

But until that day came he’d keep trying to strike a spark, and wait for a miracle he knew wasn’t coming. 

And the waters would keep rising. 


	6. in which the world ends in ice

“Hi,” Warren whispered, soft and sad, when at last he was returned to their hut. The door clicked shut behind him, and brushing the snow off his shoulders he hurried over. 

_Hi_ , Romain mouthed back. He didn’t bother asking why Warren had been so long. Sometimes They took them for a few minutes, sometimes hours. But whether the time was short or long, the one taken never remembered anything of what had occurred outside their four walls. 

Romain spent a lot of time thinking about what They might be doing to them. When it was himself with those frustrating, frightening gaps in his memory, he felt he’d do anything to learn the truth, no matter how terrifying it might be. 

When it was Warren who was taken, who was gone for what might be only ten minutes and might be an eternity, he dreaded finding out more than anything. 

“How long?” Warren said, lying down beside Romain. He was so cold he wasn’t even shivering. Romain wasn’t much warmer, but he pulled what passed for the covers around them both, and took Warren’s icy hands in his. 

_An hour or so, I think,_ he mouthed back. The only way to count time was to count heartbeats, and fear made his heart beat faster. They didn’t ever see the sun any more, and the shadows beneath the dark trees outside were vague and formless, the sky a uniform grey when it wasn’t snowing. Warren had a theory that They were reversing global warming by changing the weather patterns. All Romain knew was that it snowed every day, and the only time he was ever warm was here in the circle of Warren’s arms. 

“I’m sorry,” Warren whispered, as he read Romain’s lips in the dim light. “You’d think I’d have learned by now – ” 

_That’s what They want_ , Romain said, with a shudder he couldn’t quite suppress. He’d managed to get almost half way through Monday before he’d had his communication privileges withdrawn. The two of them had been taught to ignore the sensations of their own bodies for hours at a time long before They had come, and They’d found that pain wasn’t a particularly useful training tool. But holding the two of them responsible for each other’s behaviour was a much more effective strategy. That worked. 

“I miss your voice,” Warren said with a sigh, as he finally began to shiver. Both of them were cold all the time. If They had blood at all, They had to be cold-blooded, and They didn’t seem to understand that humans required warmth. Romain had tried anger, threats, drawing diagrams, pleading, and finally begging. But They didn’t understand, or They didn’t care, and so the two of them lay curled close together whenever they could, even though it was a breach of Their rules, and Romain paid for it with his voice. 

“I miss hearing you laugh,” Warren said, shifting closer until it felt like they were a tiny flame of warmth struggling to catch light in a vast, cold darkness. 

Romain raised his eyebrows: _there isn’t much to laugh at_. 

Warren smiled at that, for all that it was a wistful, fleeting thing. “No, but I do,” he said. “Next week I promise, I _promise_ , I’ll do whatever They say without complaining – ” 

_We’ll deal with next week when it comes_ , Romain said. _Let’s get through tonight first_. They’d both got very, very good at lip reading. He could feel a tingling warmth finally beginning to spread through his feet. _At least we’re together_. 

“I’d go mad if I were alone,” Warren said with an absolute conviction that sent a shudder down Romain’s spine. He began lacing his fingers through Warren’s, trying to get the blood flowing again, trying to say with his hands all the things that his lips couldn’t tell. 

“I know,” Warren said, with another flicker of that wistful smile. “Look, They’re starting early tonight.” 

From where they lay on the wooden boards, the two of them couldn’t see the actual view out of the window. But the light show from outside cast patterns of brightness and shadow across the ceiling, like a cross between the Northern Lights and an arc-welding factory. 

“What _do_ you think They do out there?” Warren murmured, his eyes drifting away from Romain to the dancing lights. 

Romain waited for Warren to look back to him. Without his voice, he was silenced unless Warren was looking directly at him. It took longer than he liked before Warren realised he hadn’t had a response, and his eyes jerked guiltily back to Romain’s lips. 

_I don’t know, but I don’t like it_ , Romain said with a sense of deep foreboding. Warren was always just a little too fascinated by the light show. It made Romain think of all the tales he’d ever heard of things which lurked in marshes to lure travellers off the path, with dancing lights that captivated and ensnared the mind until the feet lost their way. _It can’t be good, or They wouldn't be doing it._

“I don’t think They’re _evil_ , exactly,” Warren said. It was an old discussion, but it still left Romain speechless that Warren could do anything other than condemn Them utterly. For himself, They had taken away his entire world, and everything he loved about it. And when They’d first taken Warren’s voice from him, he’d known that if he could kill them, he would, and he would feel no remorse. 

“But just because They’re not evil, that doesn’t make it a good thing,” Warren said, reluctantly dragging his eyes away from the brightening colours. “Maybe we ought to check it out. If we knew – ” 

_No_ , Romain said at once, although he knew he was trying to hold back a creeping tide with nothing but his bare hands. The lights had been calling Warren for weeks, and nothing Romain said could change that. He didn’t know what waited out there in the dark, flashing its lights and calling to Warren, but just as surely as he knew deep in his soul that it was nothing good, he knew that sooner or later Warren wouldn’t be able to resist following that call. 

Perhaps it wasn’t something evil, not as mere humans understood the concept. Perhaps even They weren’t truly evil. But both They and whatever called at night were too vast and cold for anything human to be safe around them. Romain hated feeling so weak and fragile almost more than he hated the cold. 

Tonight the lights were mostly shades of yellow. That was one of the safer colours, filling Warren’s mind with nothing more than an intense curiosity. Romain tightened his arms round Warren a little, and Warren sighed, and shifted until he had his back to the window. 

“I won’t,” he said, pulling the covers up even further, until the lights were almost hidden. “Not without you. I promise, brave heart.” Romain wished he could believe that promise. Warren always sounded so reasonable on a yellow day. 

The next day was Tuesday, because Tuesday followed Monday, even now. Romain often wondered if he’d realise if they’d skipped a day somewhere, if there was something inherently Tuesdayish that he’d recognise if it were missing. He’d long since lost track of the date. It was the tiniest scrap of a joke between them that they wished each other happy birthday at random, because it could have been a birthday, for all either of them knew. Romain didn’t even know what season they were supposed to be in. 

It hardly mattered what the day was, except that at midnight on Sunday, or what They said was midnight on Sunday, communication privileges were restored. And at least for a few hours the two of them both had their voices back, before one of them breached Their rules. 

Tuesday was a blue day. Warren was twitchy and restless, and it was only the freezing cold that drove him away from the window and into Romain’s arms. Romain wished futilely for his voice back, and tried to make his hands say _I’m so afraid that one day soon you’ll want the lights more than you want me_ . Warren made promises he couldn’t keep, with clear, guilt-free eyes, and Romain tried to believe him. 

Wednesday was another yellow day, and it wasn’t quite so cold. Romain was exhausted, because he was watching himself continually lest he should slip up and breach Their rules. The two of them had endured weeks before where neither of them could speak, and so long as Warren was talking, so long as he was rationalising why he wanted to go out to the lights, Romain believed he could hold him. But in the silence he knew Warren’s eyes would drift to the window, and he’d stop reading Romain’s lips, and then he’d go outside. 

Thursday was a green day. It ought to have meant good and safe and peaceful, but it was always the most dangerous. Romain didn’t dare fall asleep, but despite his best efforts his exhausted eyelids at last closed, and he slipped into a restless doze. 

It was the snow that woke him. He sat up, brushing at the flakes landing on his face, confused and still half in the world of dreams. The door stood open, and snowflakes were swirling in from outside. Romain shivered, and sat up, and then he saw Warren was gone and it hit him like a jagged bolt of adrenaline that Warren _wasn’t there_ , that he was gone, that he’d followed the lights – 

He was on his feet before he knew it, standing in the doorway and desperately, futilely, trying to call out. But he couldn’t, because he didn’t have his voice, and Warren could have been gone for five minutes or five hours. Romain didn’t even know which way he’d gone, except there was only one place Warren could possibly be. Wrapping what passed for a coat around him, Romain ran out into the snow after him, dreading that at any moment one of Them would appear. 

The lights were very bright. And outside, without even a pane of glass between him and that green glow they lit up the whole sky, which seemed to say _warm_ and _home_ and _safe_. It was beautiful. The green light painted the bare branches of the trees, and the snow swirled in strange shapes that hovered on the brink of Romain’s understanding. They whispered soft, confidential things in his mind, and he hurried onward, eagerly, almost running, until – 

Romain tripped, fell, landing hard and up to his knees in the snow. He’d come down hard on his left hip, scraping it against something unseen beneath the powdery snow, and his fingers came away red. And with a shudder he realised that he hadn’t been running after Warren, he’d been running _to the lights_ – 

He turned his back on them, and still the tree branches were painted beautiful, delicate, like the spring which he’d given up hoping would ever come. Romain’s gaze was caught, held, and with an almost physical wrench he jerked away, shut his eyes, pressed his hands desperately against them, and stumbled back through the snow. He floundered through the drifts, slipping and sliding on unseen obstacles that clutched and tore at his legs until he banged hard into the wall of the hut. Slowly he fumbled his way round the side, eyes screwed tightly shut as his hands felt for the door. 

At last he found the handle, and as he fell through the door his heart was thumping almost out of his chest, and he couldn’t say whether it was with fear or anger. Because Romain had never felt the call of the lights, and if that’s what they’d done to _him_ , Warren wasn’t coming back, whether in a few minutes or a few hours. He was gone. 

For a second he stood there, shaking, and if his eyes filled with tears of fury and terror, there was no one to see. Because Warren couldn’t be gone, he _couldn’t_ , and Romain had done this alone once, but he couldn’t do it again, not without Warren – 

He fell down, curling into a ball around the pain as though if he could compress it enough it would subside to something containable within his body. But it was too big, and he was too afraid and too desperate, and every fibre of his body was tensed in a desperate prayer, that please, _please_ – 

His bleeding hip banged hard into something, and the physical pain was sharp enough that Romain’s eyes flew open automatically. And it was his old TT helmet, and Romain couldn’t help but laugh hysterically, because of all the times to be reminded of what a failure he was he didn’t need this _now_ , when he’d _lost Warren_. He picked it up automatically, but before he could hurl it across the room an energy bar dropped out. Its wrapper was a translucent red, and Romain could see the allegedly strawberry-flavoured bar within. It was the last one the two of them had left from before They came. Warren had suggested saving it for a special occasion. 

Romain looked at the bar, not really seeing it, but then his gaze came back from a thousand miles away to focus on the wrapper. 

The red, translucent wrapper. 

Hands shaking in his haste, he pulled it open, throwing the bar itself onto what now passed for their bed. Carefully, painstakingly, with agonising slowness, he peeled the rest of the wrapper open until it was flattened out. Then he held it up to his eyes, and deliberately stared out the window. 

He felt nothing. No urge to run out into the snow. But then Romain never had before, so he steeled himself, and opened the door again, the wrapper held over his eyes. 

And still, he felt nothing. The lights in the sky were just a patch of brightness, and the only thing he felt was the adrenaline burst of a fragile hope tossed amongst the churning waves of fear for Warren. It took ten minutes Romain knew he didn’t have, but with the aid of some bar tape he fixed up a red visor across his TT helmet. And he looked and felt absurd, but what did that matter? With a long breath, he once more set off towards the lights. 

It seemed like being in a low resolution video game or a dream, as everything was painted in stark shades of black and red. And it was cold, colder than Romain had noticed before, and if it was biting at his hands and feet like this, what had it done to Warren, who’d been out for minutes or hours? Romain shivered harder at the thought, and tried to hurry onward. 

Before it had felt like he was running lightly, easily, across the snow, as though the lights had somehow smoothed his path through the trees. But now he was stumbling, and his feet slipped on what he imagined must be, what _had_ to be, fallen tree branches beneath the snow. 

They could have been branches. His feet felt the shapes of things long and thin, which crunched and snapped beneath even his light weight. Romain shuddered, and for once he was thankful for the obscuring mantle of snow. 

It was dark beneath the trees. Romain had no doubt which way to head, because even beneath their bare black branches the lights were still painting one side of the sky. But it felt like he was lost, caught in an endless dark tunnel, and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. And with every beat he knew Warren had been out here, entranced, a little longer. 

He quickly lost the trail of his previous footsteps, and if Warren had passed this way at all the snow had hidden all traces of his passage. Romain pushed his way between bushes and branches drowned deep in snow, and it felt like he was carrying his tiny spark of life out and down into unfathomably vast waters. The cold hut he’d left behind seemed warm and familiar, with its things which could almost pass for those made by human hands, and it was all Romain could do not to turn and flee in blind panic. 

He gritted his teeth and kept stumbling on, trying to tread lightly, and praying that nothing was lurking unseen in the darkness, that he could creep past unnoticed and find Warren, and retreat to what now seemed like safety. And at last the tree branches parted, and Romain stepped out from beneath them, and blinked rapidly in the blaze of light before him. 

They’d wondered often enough about what had been causing the lights, but nothing could have prepared Romain for the picture that met his dazzled eyes. 

Before him the ground fell away like it was cut by a knife, so precipitously that Romain took two shaking steps backwards before he could help himself. If he’d been running he might well have plunged over that edge. It took all the courage he had, but he made himself lie down in the snow, inching forward achingly slowly, his heart in his throat, until he could look down. 

There was too much there for Romain’s cold, terrified brain to take in, but what he didn’t see was Warren’s limp body, broken by the fall. He shut his eyes, fear and thankfulness swirling together to overwhelm him, and breathed until he could look again. 

The ground dropped away, as though cut by a knife, into a great shaft cut into the ground. It had to be easily half a kilometre across to the other side, and it descended into depths unimaginable. But rising at its centre was what Romain could only describe as a tower, although there was something strange and twisting about it that made his eyes slide away from its geometry. It was a strange choice, to build a tower in a pit, but as Romain looked he could see tiny figures swarming over it, working on it, raising up some kind of scaffolding to build it ever higher. 

But he didn’t care about the architecture, and his eyes were desperately searching for one thing alone. He looked at the tower, and he looked at the pit, and then at last he realised there was a way down. On the far side of the pit was a staircase carved into the rock, with tiny figures climbing up and down. It reminded him of an M.C. Escher print, and there was something about the way the staircase circled around which bent his perception in the same way. 

As he looked his heart sank even lower, because Warren could be in the pit, or the tower, or somewhere else altogether, and Romain was so cold and afraid, and he didn’t know where to even begin to look. He wanted to call out, but everything small and mortal inside him told him to keep his head down, to tread warily and stealthily, and not to let himself be seen. And even if he’d dared, he didn’t have his voice any more. 

Romain's eyes hopelessly and automatically followed the figures climbing endlessly up and down, watching the patterns that they made shift and change. But suddenly he stiffened, hope shooting through him like an electric shock, because although the majority of them weren’t human, weren’t _people_ , were nothing more than Their creatures, he’d have recognised the curve of Warren’s back and shoulders anywhere. And even if he was climbing down into the pit, where everything in Romain screamed that the danger was at its most acute, he was still _alive_ , still okay, or he would be if Romain could just get to him. 

He was up on his feet and running, then, cursing the snow and the strange broken shapes beneath it. It was a long way round the rim of the pit, but Romain didn’t care. Hope gave him speed, even as it stretched out each heartbeat into an agony of terror and anticipation. But at last he was at the top of the staircase, and onto it, and then he was climbing down, down, down into the depths. 

Warren had almost circled around to the other side of the pit, below where Romain lay in the snow, and try as he might Romain couldn’t lessen the gap between them. The stairs were cut too steeply to be taken quickly, and although he tried taking them two at a time he slipped, tripped, and crashed down onto his hands and knees and his already bleeding hip. 

It was such a terribly long way down to the ground. As Romain knelt there looking over the edge, mere centimetres from where he landed, he realised there were clouds below him, in the pit, swirling round the tower, and moderating the light so that it faded and brightened. It took several minutes before he could summon enough courage to get to his feet and begin descending again, and he shied away from the edge, keeping one hand against the rough rock of the wall. Their creatures passed him without the blink of an eye, if indeed they truly had eyes at all, and the few people there were didn’t look away from the lights. 

Warren had got even further ahead, leading Romain by almost three quarters of a circle, and still the staircase wound downwards. Romain began to wonder if it ever ended, or if it went all the way through the earth to come out in New Zealand. He’d always thought such a thing was impossible, but then he’d never believed in aliens, before Them. 

As he descended deeper and deeper, the tower rose up to meet him, until Romain was level with it, until it was a tower in truth from his perspective, looming over him and blotting out his small glimpse of the sky above. It was made of a smooth black material like half-melted glass, and its twisting lines were clearer and even more unsettling. There was something about it which made him shudder and hurry on, trying to keep his back turned to its blank, empty windows. They showed only more black glass inside, but for all that the tower wasn’t empty. Romain knew that without knowing how he knew, and he was more afraid of meeting its inhabitant than he was of the fall. 

It seemed impossible that the steps could keep spiralling down, and yet they did, until Romain felt he’d been walking for hours, or even days, and still he was no closer to catching Warren. He’d stopped looking any further ahead than the next step, and the next, and the next, so it was a shock when his foot splashed down into water. 

Looking up, Romain realised that beyond all expectation he’d reached the floor of this place. Even the light was dim here, and somehow now it had been left behind far above him, so that everything was drowned in shadows. It was bitterly cold, and yet ahead of him, too far ahead of him, Warren was wading through the inky waters. 

Everything in Romain flinched back from touching that water, but Warren was almost lost in the shadows, so Romain took a deep breath and followed. His feet slipped and slid on unseen things beneath the surface, and he was soon walking with both arms held wide, desperately trying not to fall. At any minute he expected his feet to be snatched out from under him by something with teeth, or perhaps to be plunged down to drown in some underwater cavern. 

As he walked the black waters rose, until his feet barely touched the bottom, until he was swimming. He trod water desperately, peering ahead to make sure Warren hadn’t changed course, and to his astonishment he saw an island ahead. It didn’t seem possible that he could have missed it, but it was so dark that anything could have lain hidden just out of sight. Warren walked out of the water onto dry land, and then he stepped onto ...something. 

Romain’s eyes couldn’t make any sense of it, but Warren was there one second and the next he was gone, and Romain forced his tired limbs to swim faster, until at last the water shoaled beneath him and he stumbled out of its hateful depths onto dry land. 

The island was made of the same black glass as the tower, and slick beneath Romain’s feet, with edges like knives. He staggered wearily across it to the thing that had taken Warren, and it was a boat made of clear glass. Or rather, it was neither a boat nor glass, it was one of Their creations made to look like a boat, but it was close enough. It had taken Warren, and perhaps it would take Romain too. 

He stepped in, cold and shivering and sick with worry, and nothing happened. And as he began to look around, desperately searching, something in the stern of the boat moved. 

It was one of Their creatures, its hands made of the same glass as the boat. It leaned over, and reached out one of those cruelly sharp hands, and stopped still. Romain shuddered, and told himself that it was nothing more than water dripping from that hand, that it was just his red visor making it seem like blood. But he knew that wasn’t true, and he knew of old the impossibility of reasoning with Them or any of Their works, and _Warren was gone_ , so he closed his eyes and gritted his teeth and held his hand out. 

There was a pain, but it wasn’t a sharp one, and it wasn’t where he was expecting. When Romain’s eyes flew open Their creature had its palm pressed to his bleeding hip, and its hand came away dripping red once more. And then, without oars or sails or even the starting of a motor, the boat swung round and began to move. 

The boat was made of clear glass, and as they pulled away from the island Romain realised that the waters below him were now clear too. He looked over the edge, and his mind reeled with such dizziness that he almost fell in, as he felt like he was standing on the top of a mountain, clutching desperately at a thin ledge which was all that was preventing him from falling. He’d been in a glass elevator once long ago, and enjoyed it, but this drop was impossibly, vastly larger. He could see down, down, down into impossible depths, and deep below the surface he could see things moving. It was too dark, and they were too far away, for Romain to make out any details. 

He couldn’t say how thankful he was for that. He huddled up in a cold, terrified ball at the opposite end of the boat from Their creature, and as they sailed on into the dark he told himself that he’d find Warren on the opposite shore, and they’d flee back to the hut, and they’d be as safe as they could be anywhere these days. But the depths yawned vastly beneath him, and Romain didn’t think he’d ever feel safe again. It was like a dream he couldn’t wake up from, and Warren was still gone, lost somewhere in the endless night. 

At last the boat glided to a halt. Romain tried to shake off the weariness that clung to him, and scrambled thankfully out onto black glass, away from the water. They were far, far too close to the tower for his liking. Far ahead he could see Warren walking purposefully around its base, and Romain tried to call out, but he still didn’t have his voice, and he was too cold and too weary to run any more. He broke into an exhausted jog, but Warren was too far ahead, and Romain couldn’t catch him. 

The tower loomed over him, and although he knew he was deep underground, Romain felt like he were standing at the base of a mountain. The dark windows stared down at him, and even though it was the source of the terror, he hugged the base of the tower’s wall, to try to shield himself from their empty gaze. At any minute he expected to be set upon from behind, and his shoulder blades were tensed for the blow. 

When Warren began to slow, Romain didn’t understand what he was seeing for a moment. He’d been caught up in this dream for so long, where all he could do was to helplessly pursue, that it didn’t seem possible that it could be nearing an end. He tried to make his legs go faster, but he was too spent to do more than stumble wearily onwards, wishing with all his heart that he could call out. 

Warren came to a halt before three impossibly huge arches of black glass, that curved upwards and out and then down again, coming to points so sharp that they looked like claws. They came from the base of the tower, and between them was what Romain could only assume was a doorway. It was black and ominous as the windows far above, and all the wrongness, all the coldness of this place seemed to be flowing out from within. 

As Romain hurried reluctantly closer, fear for Warren warring with the sheer terror of whatever waited inside the tower, his heart turned over in relief when he realised that the deep shadows hid a closed door. The way inside was barred, and if Romain could just get to Warren, could just pull him away to safety before it opened, then maybe, _maybe_ – 

Warren leaned forward towards the first arch, and touched his palm to it. And Romain’s skin crawled as the long red smear that Warren’s bleeding palm left upon it was _absorbed_ into what he’d taken to be rock, before it began to softly glow with a pale light. Warren turned to the second arch, and as he moved Romain could see his face, and the tears trickling down it. Warren leaned forward, touching his cheek to the stone, and then that too was lit from within. 

Warren turned to the third arch, and this time he breathed slowly out across it. A cold wind skittered about them, growing stronger as somehow it seemed to draw Warren’s breath away from him and into the rock, and Romain ran, desperate, sprinting as he’d never done before, until at last he reached Warren, knocking into him and sending them both crashing to the ground. 

Before Warren could struggle or even move, Romain shut his eyes, yanked the TT helmet off his head, and jammed it down over Warren’s. 

Warren gasped and jerked in his arms, as though he’d just come to in the middle of icy waters. “What...?” he said, and Romain had never heard any sound sweeter. “Brave heart, what – what’s _happening?_ ” 

Romain reached out, turned Warren’s head so that Warren could see him, and said, _you followed the lights. Come on, we’ve got to get out of here_ _**now**_ _._

“Why am I wearing this?” Warren said, and Romain's heart rate spiked as he reached out without seeing to grab at Warren’s hands before he could take it off. 

_No!_ he said, clutching hard at Warren’s ice-cold, bleeding hands. _It’s the colour of the light. That’s what does it to you. I woke up and you’d gone, and I followed you all the way down here and – you’ve got to keep it on, and I’ve got to keep my eyes shut. Promise me, **promise** me _ – 

“Okay,” Warren said with a shaky laugh. “Okay, let’s get out of this place. Which way?” 

_You’re going to have to lead_ , Romain said, heart sinking. _There’s a staircase that winds round the wall. It’s a long climb, but you lead, and then when we get out – if we can just get through until sunrise we’ll be okay, you know They never show the lights by day_ – 

“Okay,” Warren said again, with a long sigh. “Right. Come on, brave heart, take my hand – ow. Ow, what on earth have I been – ” 

The wind picked up again then, and it was as chill and terrifying as ever, and suddenly Romain was afraid once more. And he wanted more than anything to open his eyes, but that was the one thing he couldn’t do. _Come on,_ he said to Warren, tugging urgently at his cold hand. _Quick_ – 

“Okay,” Warren said, and began hurrying along, leading Romain through the freezing air. “Is this the staircase? Up the tower?” 

_Not on the tower,_ Romain said. _On the outside wall. There’s some water we have to cross first – can you see a glass boat?_

“No,” Warren said doubtfully. “Wait, what _is_ that back there? Do you see that?” And he took a step in an unexpected direction, and pulled Romain off balance, and Warren’s hand slipped from his. And he almost, _almost_ , opened his eyes, but that was the one thing he couldn’t do, and he reached out blindly, feeling around him, sick to the heart and panicking and – 

“I’m here,” Warren said, and somehow Romain had got turned around, and Warren was some distance behind him. “Here I am. Don’t worry, Romain, I’ll lead. We don’t need to cross the water, this is the way.” A hand took his again, and Romain hung on tightly to that one point of contact, comforted by the warmth against his own freezing fingers. 

They began walking, and soon came to a set of stairs, and once he’d got the measure of their height Romain’s legs fell into an uneasy rhythm. It was a long, long climb, and with every step he hoped for the warmth of the sun on his face, and the sensation of light behind his eyelids. And with every step it didn’t come, and he kept on climbing in the dark. With each footfall he was caught between hope and terror, as he waited for the breaking of day, and with each step he took without seeing that light, he began to wonder. 

Because, oh, it was such a long climb towards the surface, if that was indeed where they were going. 

And something was holding his hand. 


	7. in which maybe the world doesn't end after all

Warren rowed them back to shore, and while he lit a fire, Romain gutted and cleaned the fish. It was the least sophisticated meal he’d ever eaten, and nothing in his life had ever tasted so good. When they'd finished they washed in the stream, and then Warren sat beside him on a fallen log, and Romain could no longer put his questions aside. 

His biggest fear was Them, of course, but Warren shook his head, his eyes warm and reassuring. He began telling Romain that something in the rocks of the valley repelled Them, ensuring that They never came near. He showed Romain what looked like a very ordinary stone, and told him that carrying it had protected him for all four hundred and twenty-nine days of Their invasion. 

And it sounded like nonsense, of course it did. But something had kept Warren safe while Romain had suffered through four hundred and twenty-nine long days, and he’d never even believed in aliens, before Them. 

“Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay. But... how?” 

“Who knows?” Warren said with a helpless laugh. “Ask a scientist, brave heart. But there’s a way, probably, to keep you from Them.” 

“Anything,” Romain said at once. “Whatever it is, _yes_.” 

Warren sighed, but it was clear he hadn’t expected any other answer. He stood up, took Romain’s hand, and began walking aimlessly along the shore, and Romain knew, he just _knew_ , that Warren was struggling with how to tell him. “It’s that bad?” he said gently, when ten minutes had passed and Warren hadn’t said anything further. 

“It’s not fun,” Warren said reluctantly. “And I can’t promise it’ll work. It hasn’t for – it isn’t guaranteed. And if it doesn’t, They’ll come. They’ll come and They’ll take you back.” 

“Then it doesn’t matter how bad it is, do it,” Romain told him. “You’ve done this, whatever it is?” 

“Yes,” Warren sighed. “It’s just – if it doesn’t work – ” 

“I won’t _die_ or anything?” Romain said, the thought striking him suddenly. “Because if They’re coming anyway, and the other option is Them, then I’ll gladly take my – ” 

“No, of course not!” Warren said. “It’s just – if it doesn’t work They’ll take you back, and – They do something to you, and you won’t _remember_ – ” 

“Then you’ll come and get me again, right?” Romain said, squeezing his hand. “And you’ll remind me, and if it takes a hundred tries I won’t give up, and neither will you.” 

“Okay,” Warren said, and turned to hug him tightly, burying his face in Romain’s shoulder. “Okay. If it takes a thousand times, I _promise_ I’ll always come. And I’ll be there with you, brave heart, you don’t have to go through this alone.” 

“You really know how to sell it to me,” Romain said, patting his back reassuringly. “Come on, if it’s that awful, let’s get it over and done with. You can’t even give me a hint?” 

“They don’t know – it’s – no, I can’t,” Warren said with a sigh. “Not until it’s worked. I promise I’ll explain then, but... okay, well, if we’re going to do this...” 

He led Romain back up the cliff, and made him sit down on the pile of blankets they’d slept on. And then he handed him what appeared to be a glass of milk. 

“That’s it?” Romain said incredulously. “Milk?” 

“It isn’t,” Warren said miserably, sitting down beside him. “Knock it back like a shot. Trust me, you don’t want to taste it.” 

“Okay,” Romain said. “I hope you know what you’re talking about. Well, your good health, then.” He tried to swallow it in one go, and whilst it wasn’t the most pleasant thing he’d ever tasted, it wasn’t even in the same league as some of the recovery drinks he’d used to have to get down. “That wasn’t so bad,” he said, and set the glass down. “When do I get to the – ” 

And then the liquid he’d drunk turned to flame, and all he could do was to claw at his throat and try to scream. 

Everything was a blur after that. At one point it was night, and Romain was lying propped up against Warren’s chest. There was a continuous low moaning sound, and he was just aware enough to wish it would stop. It was night, because he could see stars peeking out from between the fluttering leaves above. Romain's left leg was twisted uncomfortably, and he tried to tell Warren, so that Warren would let him sit up. For some reason he couldn’t seem to manage to pull himself upright. But the words wouldn’t come, and he was still wondering why when the picture dissolved again. 

Next it was day, and he was hot, too hot, burning up. He could hear the babbling of the stream, and it nagged at him, infuriated him, that the cold water was _right there_ and for some reason he couldn’t get to it. Someone was still moaning, and Romain’s head was pounding, and it seemed beyond bearing that not only could he not reach the water, whoever it was just wouldn’t shut up. Someone held a glass to his lips, but although he tried to gulp it down, it wasn’t water but something so bitter that he choked, gagged, and yet they kept on pouring it down his throat. 

It was night again after that, and this time he was horribly, vividly aware, as he threw up into the river. Someone was holding him, and it was Warren, because Romain would’ve known the feel of Warren’s hands anywhere. It took him a long time to realise what he was seeing, because he was mostly focused on riding out the roiling waves of nausea. But if Warren were holding him, if Warren’s hands were comforting him, then the pair of feet he could see, someone standing over them, had to belong to somebody else. It crossed his mind that it was probably the moaner, who had _finally_ quietened, but before Romain could give them a piece of his mind his stomach turned itself inside out again. 

Again it was day, but the sun was either rising and setting, and its long golden rays slanted between the trees, gilding everything with a magical glow. Romain was lying on his side, his left leg carefully straightened, and beside him Warren was stirring something Romain couldn’t quite see. Warren looked terrible, dirty and unshaven and as though he hadn’t slept for a week. He was talking to someone, because Romain could see his lips moving, but he couldn’t make out the words. Whoever was moaning was really starting to annoy him, as Warren quite clearly needed Romain, but when he tried to ask what was wrong Warren couldn’t hear him over the incessant noise. 

When he came back to himself, when for the first time he was really awake and aware, he floated back into consciousness to the sounds of the stream and the sea and the seagulls crying. It felt like he was drifting slowly upwards out from deep waters. Still in that state of quiet calm that belonged on the path to sleep, he finally realised that the reason he could hear the gentle sounds was because the moaning had stopped. He ached like he’d ridden up a dozen mountains non-stop, and for the first time in what seemed forever he was all too present within his heavy, hurting body. 

It took him a while, but at last he managed to open his eyes. Warren was sat beside him, and he had a hand over his eyes as though he’d been crying. 

“What’s wrong?” Romain said, or tried to, but it came out as a mangled and cracked whisper. He tried to clear his throat, but that didn’t work either, and then it didn’t matter, because like a flash of lightning hope dawned in Warren’s exhausted face. 

“Brave heart?” he said in a whisper which wasn’t even nearly steady. 

“Ngh,” Romain said, and rolled his eyes, which he hoped conveyed the message that yes, it was him, and what was the matter with Warren, and what on earth had happened? 

“Hold on,” Warren said, and disappeared, and in a moment he was back with a glass. And this time it _was_ water, and as it trickled down Romain's aching throat it was sweeter than any wine he’d ever drunk. “I thought – ” 

“What,” Romain managed, and counted it a success. With an enormous effort he managed to move one arm. It wasn’t entirely successful – although he got his hand onto Warren’s leg, it was too heavy to do more than just leave it lying there as a dead weight – but the thought was there, and Warren seemed to understand. “What – ” 

“I said it wasn’t pleasant,” Warren said, and his eyes were wet, but he was smiling like the sunrise. “But you’re _safe_ now. They can’t touch you!” 

Later, Romain would ask for explanations. But for then it was enough to just lie there in the sunshine, with Warren by his side. He didn't even remember the moment when the things around him blurred into the world of dreams. 

When he woke for the second time, he was ravenous and clear-headed. Warren incoherently, delightedly checked him over, and Romain let him fuss, as it was clear that whatever he’d gone through had been rougher on Warren than it had on him. All he’d got were a few dark, disjointed memories, but behind the joy there was a haunted look in Warren’s eyes. 

At last Warren decided that Romain was indeed okay, and then he finally got to have breakfast. It wasn’t fish this time, it was some sort of flatbread, but Romain wasn’t in a position to be choosy. He suddenly realised he was starving, and it was a real effort to force himself to take small bites, to give his stomach the chance to adjust. 

It was _delicious_. He’d almost forgotten what real bread tasted like, after four hundred and twenty-nine days of what They believed could pass for human food. And while he ate, he looked round in wonder at the lush green trees, at the tall ferns rustling in the breeze, at the stream running strong and clear. He’d got so many questions he didn’t know where to begin. 

“I told you about the rock,” Warren said. He was contentedly holding Romain's hand, and showed no sign of ever wanting to let go. “The whole island is made of it, and They can’t come here. That’s what you were drinking – well, in powdered form. And so long as you keep taking it, They can’t touch you!” 

“I have to go through that again?” Romain said. He’d do it, he’d do whatever it took to stay with Warren, but he was hardly overjoyed about the process. “How often?” 

“No, it’s just like that at the beginning,” Warren said. “Whatever it is They’re dosing you with, it takes a few days to flush it out of your system. It was awful, I _know_ , but you won’t have to do that again. There’s some of it baked into that bread, and you still feel fine, right?” 

Romain had to admit that he did. “So I’m adapted to it now? How on earth did you ever work out that _eating rock_ would help?” 

“Who on earth thought we’d ever get invaded by aliens?” Warren countered. “Besides, it wasn’t me. Don’t you want to come and meet the others?” 

“ _Others_?” Romain said. He’d thought he was the only person left alive, alone in a world that contained only Them and Their creatures. Just being with Warren again was enough that he could still have believed it to be heaven. And if there were other survivors too – 

“I couldn’t tell you before,” Warren said, tugging him to his feet, his eyes still a little shadowed. “Not everyone can adapt. We’ve had some people who got more and more ill, and they had to stop taking it, and if you’re not protected, They’ll come and take you back. And I wanted to tell you, but _They can’t find out_ about this place, not ever.” 

“It’s okay,” Romain said, and to his surprise he meant it. “I just – a week ago I was wondering if I went at it slow enough if I could ride off the cliff, and – ” 

“ _Don’t_ ,” Warren said, and shuddered. “I’ve been trying to get to you for weeks, and in the end the only thing I could do was to make you crash. But if you’d been hurt – ” 

“But I wasn’t,” Romain said, his fingers tightening on Warren’s. “Or not beyond a couple of bruises and a few scrapes, anyway. I’d have asked you to break both my legs before staying with Them!” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Warren said, and shivered again. They began walking hand in hand up the cliff path, and then Warren suddenly laughed, the shadows in his eyes fading. “It doesn’t matter now – you’re _here_.” 

“I’m here,” Romain said. “You’re here. That’s enough.” 

“Just you wait,” Warren told him, with what was almost his old cheeky grin. “You’ve got no idea.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Romain started to say, as they scrambled up to the very top of the cliff, but he broke off when he saw what was on the other side. 

It had been four hundred and twenty-nine days since They’d invaded, or perhaps a few more, as Romain had no idea how long it had taken his body to adapt to a diet containing literal rocks. The fragments he remembered felt like a few hours, but from the toll it had taken on Warren it could’ve been a century. But since They’d invaded it had been a year and two months and some number of days, and in all that time he’d seen no one, _no one_ , except Them and Their creatures. 

Down in the valley were scores, perhaps even hundreds, of tents pitched between the trees. Scattered among them were a dozen or so camper vans. There were three big marquees in a clearing, and everywhere, everywhere, there were people. There was an organised group cooking over a line of barbecues, children kicking a football down by the shore, and a cluster of teens doing something to a small boat. Everywhere Romain looked there were people talking, people arguing, people working and loving and living together; everywhere real, human _people_. 

“See,” Warren said softly. 

Romain couldn’t say anything round the lump in his throat, because They hadn’t won, not yet. This wasn’t the world that he’d grown up in, the world he’d lived all his life in, the world he'd always assumed would keep on turning on the same old axis. But here, at last, was the flicker of hope he’d given up waiting on four hundred and twenty-nine days ago. 

“One person at a time,” Warren said. “We won’t be able to bring everyone back here, but we’ve got a plan for taking back the village on the mainland. And there’ve got to be other sanctuaries out there. This can’t be the only outcrop of the right kind of rock in the world. Someone knows a geologist – we’re trying to rescue her next, and maybe she can point us to the right regions. All we have to do is keep saving people one at a time, and one by one by one freedom from Them will spread in every direction, until They have nowhere left in the world to go.” 

“Why me?” Romain said, humbled. “What can I possibly do to help?” 

“Don’t be silly,” Warren said, and gave their joined hands a little shake. “You know They can stop any kind of machinery, so we can’t use cars – or, well, we can, but we never know for how long, and not near Them. But so long as you keep taking the rock, They can’t stop _you_ any more. Can you think of any reason that it might be handy having someone who can ride 200km in one go? I'd never have left you to Them, brave heart. I know it took me too long to come, but – ” 

“No,” Romain whispered, as their eyes met. “You came just in time.” 

“Come on, then,” Warren said, and grinned. “Let’s go and save the world.” 


End file.
